


Good Working Relationships

by lacrimalis



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Black Hat-Typical Violence & Abuse, Content warnings at the beginning of each chapter!, Dr. Flug's Comfort Object Is A Paper Bag, Dubious Ethics & Morality All Around, Indentured Servitude, M/M, Not Necessarily '''''''Healthy''''''''''''', Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, View At Your Own Risk, You're Welcome You Fucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 22:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10953609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: Toiling thanklessly beneath the boot of other evil geniuses with aspirations of world domination had long been Dr. Flug’s occupation.





	1. Undercutting the Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter include: blood, dismemberment, disfigurement, off-screen death.

Toiling thanklessly beneath the boot of other evil geniuses with aspirations of world domination had long been Dr. Flug’s occupation.

He had the mind and the knack for invention, but none of the drive or vision of those who sought his services. He was mostly content to remain in the shadows, though. World domination was still glamorous, even if you were just on the payroll of the person who accomplished it. It was money, too -- evil invention on the scale of Saturday-morning cartoon supervillains wasn’t exactly a cheap one, as hobbies come.  And besides that, Dr. Flug had to eat. And live indoors.

There was always a giddy, childlike excitement, too, of receiving room and board in a villain’s base of operations.  Villains hardly ever spared an expense for aesthetic, so it was never boring: Dr. Flug had wandered many a gently lit and generously columned hall, admired the shine of countless a gilded statue of his employer, narcissistically commissioned in the hundreds. He had idled on black marble balconies in torchlight, smelling the ozone of stirring stormclouds below from high atop a treacherous mountain.

He hadn’t considered, when he began tinkering, that his hobby would lead him to travel much -- or if it did that it wouldn’t matter, since he would always be staring at the same four walls, working on his inventions.  But with his acumen, the demands of his employers were almost laughably easy to meet, and he had unexpectedly long stretches of free time. He spent that time working on personal projects as well, but the sheer volume of free time and the uniqueness of each new job made him want to explore. Anyway, a change of scenery helped Dr. Flug brainstorm.

One might wonder why anyone would willingly place themselves in the orbit of such dangerous individuals (though many would not wonder at all if they saw how large some of Dr. Flug’s paychecks were).  Or if Dr. Flug were truly competent, one might ask why he didn’t aspire for world domination himself?  

If Dr. Flug were being perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that he liked taking orders. He liked helping, feeling useful. And it was easier to get out of bed in the morning, if you knew that your boss would kill or torture you for insolence when you didn’t hand them a progress report on time. Less of a chore, too, to eat and hydrate when your work performance had a direct lifeline to your employer’s tetchy temper.  Harder to lie around useless, listless, full of ideas and weighed down by executive cognitive dysfunction.

He didn’t cow to his employers’ demands if they were unreasonable. Regardless of the working conditions in which he found himself, Dr. Flug took pride in his work. He refused to present something unfinished or half-functional with his name on it.  And he only stuttered a little when he put his foot down, gaining ground as he graphically described the dangers and pitfalls of using such dangerous technology recklessly.  He could cite the villains that had died in ignominy as a result of their own stupidity by name and death date -- it was part of the reason he was so passionate about his work.

His employers tended to back down after that, after which they could negotiate more reasonable deadlines. It was only when they kept insisting that Dr. Flug’s hand was forced. Really, how could they expect their many-bladed death machine not to cough up a few extra blades in inconvenient directions if they never gave him time to fine-tune the design?  And if a remote bomb was a far cry from a weather machine, well -- he was far enough away by the time the error was noticed that nobody could demand an explanation of him.

Even though it was an inconvenience, it didn’t bother him much when his employers got too arrogant. They had it coming, and Dr. Flug didn’t owe them anything.  Very few things came close to bothering him. Sure, he hardly ever got called by his proper title of “doctor”, nevermind his actual name when “fool” or “four-eyes” or “bean pole” came just as readily to the tongue. But even the interpersonal disrespect only registered as a minor blip in Dr. Flug’s list of concerns.

The thing that irked Dr. Flug, really made him dissatisfied, was when his employers scraped his name off the metal paneling of his latest work and carved in their signature -- sometimes not even _bothering_ with that before trying to pass off the invention as their own as they pinned him with a murderous, silencing stare.

He questioned his work at times like that.  Wondered, for how useful it made him feel, whether playing second banana to a megalomaniac was even worth it if he wasn’t being recognized for his efforts.  Wondered what recognition was even worth, at the end of the day, if his employers succeeded in their plans and turned everyone on the planet into mindless zombies or complacent drones. Statistically, a successful attempt at world domination was highly unlikely. But it still troubled him.

It was in one such bout of wondering -- pouting and brooding, really -- that Dr. Flug received a message on his work account.  He set down what he was doing with a frown. He had edited his profile to reflect that he was currently under another villain’s employ and not seeking work, but this wasn’t unusual. Villains were pushy, and it’s happened more than once that he got someone in his inbox raving at his “insolence” and “foolishness” for turning down a job offer in their lofty operation, despite his status reading clearly “unavailable”.

Dr. Flug snorts at the thought. Still, he has plenty of time before his next deadline, and he’s interested to see how his latest prospective client will react when he turns them down. It's sometimes good for a laugh.

He props his feet up on his work desk, reclining in his swivel chair as he picks up his phone and swipes away the lock screen.

What he sees gives him pause.

He’s made his own modifications to his phone to detect where incoming correspondence originates, even from blocked numbers or unconventional methods -- but there is no number, no address or name. Just a simple grey icon with the black silhouette of a top hat. And the message, of course, which reads:

_‘Dr. Flug, I presume?’_

Dr. Flug resists the urge to preen at actually being addressed properly.  This is professional correspondence, after all -- everyone talks a big game about the extensive benefits they offer and their comprehensive dental plans, and if it would please you, good doctor, to be an instrumental part of my glorious plan?

It was only after the niceties had been dispensed with that they showed their true colors.

 _‘Yes,’_ Dr. Flug responds. _'Who is this?’_

A bouncing ellipses appears to inform him his correspondent is writing a message -- at least _that_ function is working, Dr. Flug thinks with a huff. He should take a moment to refine his search algorithms when he has the time.

_‘You may call me Black Hat.’_

No further messages seem to be forthcoming, and Dr. Flug is struck with the realization that this person actually wants to have a conversation, rather than getting straight down to brass tacks. Normally Dr. Flug doesn’t have the patience for it, but he happens to be bored. And the name is intriguing, if it implies what he thinks it does.

_‘So are you a hacker, or is the name just a coincidence?’_

Dr. Flug taps his fingers on the table arrhythmically, then drops his feet from the desk to spin in his chair. The bouncing ellipses appears for but a moment, and then suddenly:

_‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’_

Well, Dr. Flug thinks as he removes his goggles and scratches his head. They type fast, even if they don’t seem to know the basics of cybersecurity. Dr. Flug doesn’t judge -- after all, most people hire him for his expertise on the subject _because_ they don’t know. That’s just good job security for Dr. Flug.

 _‘Sorry,’_ he types in explanation, _'a ‘black hat’ is someone who breaks into computer systems for personal gain or ill intent. By contrast, a ‘white hat’ asks permission to break into a system, then reports to the proprietor of the system about the methods they used, for the purpose of improving the system’s security.’_

Dr. Flug swings his goggles around his finger and frets as his conversational partner remains silent.  That explanation wasn’t too technical, was it? He reads and rereads his response, but no. It seems fine to him? _'It can also refer to unethical behavior or people,’_ he blurts, but still no response. An itch crawls up his spine. His face and neck burn hot with humiliation. No, no, no, he’s making a fool of himself, why did he ramble like that, why can’t he just shut up--

He sets his goggles and phone down on his desk and roots around in the drawers. The paper bag is softened with wrinkles, and he looks around the lab his employer provided before pulling it down over his face.  He takes a few deep breaths, and the smell -- reminiscent of freshly bought groceries, arts and crafts, a fresh stack of drafting paper -- fills his senses and brings him back down to earth.

It’s indulgent to bring his comfort object out during work hours, but it is there for emergencies, after all.  His phone chimes. A reply.  Slowly, Dr. Flug picks the phone back up to read it.

_‘Then it is a coincidence. But an apt one.’_

Dr. Flug wonders if Black Hat thinks the coincidence is apt because they happen to be fond of hats that are black, or because they consider themselves an unethical person.

 _‘Ah,’_ Dr. Flug types, feeling foolish for overreacting. _‘Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mx. Black Hat.’_

This time the response is immediate. _‘The feeling is mutual, Dr. Flug.’_

Dr. Flug’s face flushes beneath the paper bag. _Niceties,_ he has to tell himself. _‘Are you reaching out because you have need of my services, Mx. Black Hat? Or just for the conversation?’_

Another set of breathing exercises is in order when Dr. Flug takes a moment to acknowledge how forward he’s being. He’s usually no-nonsense, right to the point. What in the world is possessing him to try and be coy, or funny? He doesn’t know this person. He certainly has nothing to prove to them.

_‘It is my understanding that you are currently under the employ of one Mr. Amos Slade.’_

Dr. Flug frowns, his hackles raising. Villains have their ways, and considering Black Hat managed to mask their location from his search algorithms, Dr. Flug doesn’t waste time questioning how they know who he’s working for. But he has his professional reputation to uphold, so he can only respond, _‘I don’t divulge information pertaining to my clients or my work for them, so I can’t confirm or deny that.’_

There is a long pause. Dr. Flug sets his phone down and stands, wiping his sweaty palms on his lab coat and pacing around the room, breathing in the smell of the paper bag. His phone chimes. Dr. Flug stops pacing, but he doesn’t go to respond just yet. He flexes his fingers, takes a few more deep breaths.

Then his phone chimes again.

And again.

He rushes back to his desk and snatches his phone up.

 _'Hmm,’_ is all the first message reads, and when he sees that, Dr. Flug is a little glad he didn’t hurry to answer when it chimed the first time. _‘Then I will do most of the talking. Amos Slade and I were in the process of negotiating a sale. Perhaps you can take a guess at what he was in the market for?'_

Dr. Flug glances over to his work desk, where complex plans and half-assembled machinery lay scattered. Yes, he could make an educated guess.

 _‘Imagine my surprise,’_ Black Hat goes on, _‘when he inconsiderately informs me that he has hired one ‘Dr. Flug’ to make the same device for half the cost, on-site, at a higher production value -- after I have already sent the item in question out to be shipped.’_

Dr. Flug’s heart sinks. He taps out his response with shaking hands. _‘Um, I’m very sorry to hear that, Mx. Black Hat. It certinly was’nt my intention to undercut you...’_ Dr. Flug curses when he sees he’s sent the message with spelling errors, but it’s already too late. He can’t be bothered to fret over something as frivolous as spelling just now, anyway.

What had Mr. Slade been thinking?!  Name-dropping him to someone, a _competitor_ of all people, and bragging so recklessly about how much better his invention will be? Dr. Flug hasn’t even built it yet!  “Villains love to gloat,” Dr. Flug reminds himself. He drags a hand over his paper bag-covered face with a sigh.

_‘Ah, so now you may disclose information at your leisure?’_

They’ve got him there, Dr. Flug thinks -- but he’s feeling just rebellious enough to start trash talking his employer with this total stranger.

 _‘He mentioned something about a ‘better deal’, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I can’t believe he told you my_ name,’ Dr. Flug complains. _‘I can’t believe he’s only paying me half of what he was going to pay you.’_

 _‘I was price gouging him anyway,’_ Black Hat admits. Dr. Flug is so surprised by the admission that he laughs aloud. It’s strange. Black Hat’s tone is almost... conciliatory?

Still snickering, Dr. Flug inexplicably finds himself trying his hand at humor once more. _‘No business ethics among villains, I take it?’_

_‘Certainly not! But it’s the principle of the thing, you understand. I’ve been disrespected.’_

Dr. Flug sobers, humor evaporating like water in the volcano lair he was working out of not too long ago. Villains talking about ‘principles’ are rarely ever engaging in a rousing discussion about ethics in villainy for its own sake. He types back, surprisingly steady-handed: _‘So are you going to kill me?’_

Dr. Flug can almost hear the accompanying evil laughter when the next response comes. _‘Your knack for sensing murderous intent is remarkable!’_

Dr. Flug doesn’t allow himself to hope, but. It isn’t a ‘yes’. _‘Are you?’_

 _‘But then, no less than one would expect for someone in our line of work, I suppose,’_ Black Hat goes on, as if Dr. Flug hasn’t said anything at all.

Dr. Flug scowls at the phone. Black Hat is avoiding answering to try and keep him guessing, make him nervous. It’s working, but Dr. Flug doesn’t want to give them the gratification. He isn’t going to hold his breath for a message assuring him that Black Hat _won’t_ kill him, when such an assurance could just as easily be a lie. If Black Hat wanted him to betray his employer himself, they would say so -- maybe start talking financial compensation. Anything after this point is just Black Hat playing with their food, and Dr. Flug refuses to participate.

He sets his phone down at the corner of his desk and picks up his goggles. Pauses. He’s too high-strung to put away the paper bag, but eye protection is important. With a shrug, he tugs his goggles on over the paper bag, which crinkles and presses strangely against his head. Whatever. This is fine.

He taps the intercom to order a pizza from the kitchen, and he gets back to work.

* * *

Dr. Flug doesn't hear from Black Hat again, and when he tries to look for the message history he can't find it for the life of him. He wonders if the mysterious villain -- or rather, peddler of villainous devices -- had left him any more messages, before somehow remotely deleting their conversation.

Months pass. Mr. Slade doesn't act as if anything is out of the ordinary, and he keeps paying Dr. Flug. So Dr. Flug keeps working, all the while trying to stave off the sense of impending doom.

The tension comes to a head on the eve of Mr. Slade implementing his plans for world domination. Mr. Slade has been careful not to cultivate a reputation in the greater hero/villain community, so there is no dashing, bright-eyed hero come to thwart his plans at the eleventh hour. Other villains may call such an approach cowardly, but Dr. Flug thinks it's sensible. You get a lot more villainy done when you're not wasting time exposing yourself with theatrics.

Mr. Slade tells Dr. Flug to power up the machine for a test run. Dr. Flug supposes he found some poor civilian to test it on, and tries not to let his moral scruples show on his face.

Well. There would be no try if his face wasn't showing in the first place.

Dr. Flug wheels the machine into the elevator on a dolly and brings it to Mr. Slade’s ostentatious throne room.

When he arrives, Mr. Slade laughs. “What are you wearing on your head, Flug?”

Dr. Flug does not shuffle his feet. “I-It helps me remain focused, Mr. Slade.”

Mr. Slade rolls his eyes in grand amusement and steps down from his dais. “As long as you produce results, I don't really care how you dress.”

Dr. Flug’s back straightens. “And what results I have produced for you, sir!" He sketches a little bow and gestures both arms toward the results in question. "The Brainwashing Machine, as requested.”

Mr. Slade leans close and peers at the detail work. He runs a finger along the polished edges of the metal. “Very good, Doctor. Now, how do I use it?”

Dr. Flug jumps into motion, gesturing at each part of the device as he explains. “Simply restrain the subject in the chair and power on the device! Then at the terminal, a user-friendly menu will assist you through the process. When you're finished, this lever here,” Dr. Flug says, pointing to a lever on the side of the terminal, “will initialize the brainwashing process. A timer on the screen will let you know when the process will be complete.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Slade murmurs. “Go plug it in while I have the guards bring out the test subject.”

Dr. Flug sags with relief. Maybe he won't even have to hear the person begging for mercy if he dawdles long enough on his way back. “Certainly, sir!”

He opens up a compartment on the back of the device where a reel of cable is tucked away, and begins pulling it along to the nearest power outlet. While he admires the spacious interior design of most grand villainous lairs, they never have ideal electrical outlet placement, which is a definite drawback.

As he's searching, Dr. Flug wonders what kind of lair he would have, if he cared enough to have one of his own. Something imposing, but cozy. He spends most of his time in his lab, so he wouldn't want his entire lair to look like one. Metal paneling is so unsightly in domestic interiors. Maybe a darker color scheme -- no blue lights, either, to avoid eyestrain. Torches in sconces may be old hat, and a fire hazard besides, but maybe some soft orange bulbs would do the trick. And as tempting as chandeliers are to consider, those are a falling hazard too ironic to be worth the investment.

Just when Dr. Flug is beginning to worry that he'll soon reach the end of the reel, he finds the power outlet he had been searching for. He plugs it in, and in the distance he hears the hum of the device powering on. Ah, so Mr. Slade already brought out the test subject. Dr. Flug takes his time on the way back.

Honestly, a one-bedroom house with a large basement would suit Dr. Flug just fine, but he doesn't think he would be taken seriously by the villain community if he lived in a regular suburban home. A castle or fortress would be far too large, though...

Maybe a mansion?  A place like that could be cozy, with plenty of secret rooms to hide in and trap doors by which to escape in case a hero came calling. A huge library, and an even bigger laboratory... A kitchen and a personal chef to make him pizza whenever he wanted it... Dr. Flug’s mouth waters thinking about the pizza perks alone.

Maybe he'll settle down and get a place like that after this job, Dr. Flug thinks as he reenters the throne room. From his vantage point, he can see that the device is powered on, but not who is in the chair. Mr. Slade is still playing with the screen, though, so maybe he hasn't used it yet? He might still have questions about how it works, Dr. Flug realizes, and he jogs to Mr. Slade’s side to avoid keeping him waiting any longer.

“Have you tried it yet, sir?” Dr. Flug asks, wringing his hands nervously.

“No, no, not yet... Actually, I had a question. The plus sign is ideas you're putting in their head, and the minus sign is ideas you're taking away, right?”

Dr. Flug nods. “Precisely, sir!”

“Can I get you to take a look at this?”

Dr. Flug steps up beside Mr. Slade to take a look at the screen. The way Mr. Slade has it set up now, whoever he straps into the chair will be undyingly loyal to the man -- but also be incapable of comprehending the concepts of personal freedom, defiance, or subterfuge. “Is this the template you want to use for the whole population?” Dr. Flug asks, troubled.

Mr. Slade laughs and pats Dr. Flug’s shoulder far too companionably. “No, no, just my personal repertoire of guards and staff...”

That's pretty sensible, Dr. Flug thinks. If the chef can't use subterfuge, you won't ever find your food poisoned. Nor could a guard stab you in the back. The “personal freedom” clause seems a bit much, though. It's so broad that Mr. Slade might just end up with a bunch of glassy-eyed zombies, if he initializes it like this.

Then again, maybe that’s what Mr. Slade wants? Dr. Flug shivers, gladder in this moment than he’s ever been to be nearly done with a job. Still, he can't help glancing around the terminal to cast a pitying look toward the chair, where some poor unconscious soul is undoubtedly awaiting the death of their self...

But the chair is empty.

An icy coldness grips the base of Dr. Flug's skull. “Where is the test subject?” he asks faintly.

He _knows_ where the test subject is. He's been a fool.

“As luck would have it,” Mr. Slade’s smiling voice says, suddenly far away, “the guards have him right here.”

Two hands seize Dr. Flug’s upper arms in twin vice grips, hauling him into the chair and strapping him in roughly. “Mr. Slade! Don't do this, you need me!”

“That's exactly right, Dr. Flug. I _do_ need you.” Mr. Slade steps into Dr. Flug’s field of vision, once the pair of barrel-chested guards have strapped him in securely and stepped out of the way. “And if I want to rule the world with just this device, it would behoove me to keep the person who made it around in case it ever breaks, wouldn't it?”

Dr. Flug thrashes in his bonds, but to no avail. It's disorienting: he sat in this very chair to test the integrity of its belts and restraints, never even realizing that his employer intended to use it on _him._ He knows from experience that struggling is futile.

“Mr. Slade, please! Let's talk about this... What if the brainwashing process impacts my intellect?  Or has side effects of the nervous system that prevent me from working? Y-You wouldn't want that...”

Mr. Slade smiles and leans in, smelling too strongly of expensive cologne. “Let's just say I have a lot of faith in your craftsmanship.”

No, no, no, no, no! Not like this... Anything but this... The brain was the vessel of the self. Dr. Flug didn't want to be a gormless, passionless lackey. He wanted to keep inventing new things -- he wanted to _live._

“Sir... Mr. Slade, please... I'll do anything, I... I...”

“Oh, I know you will.” Mr. Slade says, looking satisfied. “Because soon you'll have no choice but to do whatever I say.”

The _ker-chunk!_ of the lever makes Dr. Flug’s stomach drop into his feet. He had been so concerned with it being satisfying to pull, a pleasantly mechanical haptic feedback. Now the sound is about as pleasant to Dr. Flug as the _shing!_ of a guillotine falling on his neck.

The machine’s whirring increases in volume, and Dr. Flug can hear electricity crackling as the metal restraint on his neck clicks and chirps. He had excitedly informed Mr. Slade of his innovation a month ago -- the process would be completely electrical. Totally noninvasive. No messy blood splatters, or cross-contamination from sharing needles between subjects.

Mr. Slade had been pleased.

A jolt of electricity makes Dr. Flug’s body jerk, his jaw clenched in a rictus of pain. Then another, and another, until his mind is screaming agony. He feels like he has a splitting headache, and then as if his head is being split open down the middle, nerve endings shrieking in discordant song.

Dr. Flug has never gotten the hang of enduring pain.

He loses consciousness.

* * *

 

Dr. Flug awakens with a throbbing headache. It takes him a moment to figure out that the blaring sirens aren’t coming from inside his skull, but the speakers in the ceiling. The proximity alarms. He set them up himself. He blinks his eyes open, a wash of red lights turning slowly off and on. His works his jaw and tastes blood. He very nearly spits it out, before he remembers he's wearing a paper bag on his head. With a grimace, he swallows it, the taste lingering stickily in his throat.

Even after dealing with that unpleasantness, the smell of blood remains, pungent and invasive, and it takes Dr. Flug a moment to realize why.

The bodies of Mr. Slade’s guards are strewn about in various states of dismemberment. Blood covers the polished floor in large, still puddles. It has long since finished leaking from their corpses, Dr. Flug determines.

Inexplicably, whatever malevolent whirlwind swept through here and killed them all seems to have left Dr. Flug alone.

Distantly, past the sirens and the pounding of his blood in his own head, Dr. Flug thinks he hears the sound of screaming. But he can’t be sure.

Dr. Flug tests his restraints. The device is powered down, but he’s still not getting out of this chair any time soon. He might starve here.

The sirens cut off abruptly, but the warning lights remain on. Then the device powers up again, and Dr. Flug’s breath hitches -- but without an operator, it won’t activate again. It’s a small comfort, from where he sits.

The lights flicker back on, and his goggles only provide meager protection from the sudden intensity of the light. He blinks hard until his eyes adjust, but even then, the sight is hardly a comforting one.  The gorey tableau is only rendered in even more color and detail than before.  Dr. Flug inhales deeply, but the paper bag smell is concealed by the scent of his own blood and sweat.

_Tap._

Dr. Flug jerks in his seat, choking on the throat restraint. _Tap, tap, tap._  Rhythmic, like footsteps -- dress shoes on the polished marble, growing in volume. In proximity.

_Tap, tap, tap, splash, splash, splash._

Someone steps in front of the machine. They’re wearing a black coat and tie, a surprisingly pristine white vest, and a shirt the bright crimson of the blood surrounding them. Dr. Flug can only turn his head so far up before the metal ring on his throat restricts his movement. But he catches a glimpse of preternaturally sharp and gleaming teeth, set in an unnaturally dark face.

“H-Hello? Who are you?”

Dr. Flug hadn’t noticed at first, but the person is carrying someone by their lapel.  Their face is unrecognizably disfigured, but Dr. Flug recognizes Mr. Slade’s tie despite the blood splattered across the dead man’s chest. The stranger unceremoniously drops the corpse onto the blood-covered floor with a _splash!_ and turns to Dr. Flug.

“Oh, you’re alive!" The voice is... discomfiting. It's raspy and lilting, like gravel shifting at the bottom of a dry well. More tenor than baritone, but no less foreboding. "Your body was giving off smoke half an hour ago, so I assumed you’d been fried to a crisp!” The stranger leans down into Dr. Flug’s field of vision, and while those features are bizarre, what sticks out to Dr. Flug is the black top hat.

A black top hat...

“... Black Hat?” Dr. Flug ventures.

Black Hat blinks as if surprised to be recognized. The eye that isn’t hidden behind a monocle surveys Dr. Flug from the bottom up. He feels exposed. Slowly, those jagged teeth split into a grin. “Dr. Flug, I presume?”

“Yes,” Dr. Flug says, unsure whether he should be relieved or afraid.

Black Hat hums. “But what are you doing in... ohohoho!” Black Hat steps over to the terminal, and Dr. Flug jerks in alarm. “The Brainwashing Machine!  I have to admit, the production quality really is quite good...”

“N-No...!”

Black Hat's eyes dart across the screen. “Amos Slade decided to keep you all to himself, did he?”

Dr. Flug is almost relieved by the wave of bitterness and hatred that washes over him at his former employer’s name. It means the brainwashing sequence must have only just begun to initialize when the power was cut. He's still himself.

“He did,” Dr. Flug says.

Black Hat runs a gloved hand contemplatively across that mouth full of jagged teeth and hums. “It _is_ tempting...”

Dr. Flug hangs his head and clenches his fists. What’s the point in begging for his life? Black Hat would just derive amusement from it. He’d rather face his death of self with a small shred of dignity.

“Well?” Black Hat prompts.

Dr. Flug looks up. “W-What? What do you want?”

Black Hat looks bored. “Aren’t you going to beg for your life?”

Dr. Flug stares at Black Hat, incredulous. “Is it going to change your mind?”

Black Hat sniggers, smile splitting and biting into lower lip. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Dr. Flug scoffs, looking away. Black Hat is just pushing him for a reaction. If the corpses of his former coworkers and employer are anything to go by, Dr. Flug's chances of surviving this encounter are slim to none. He won't give Black Hat the satisfaction. “No, you can just kill me.”

“ _Ha!_ ” Black Hat laughs, making Dr. Flug jump. “Oh, you’re fun.” The very next moment -- and quite _literally_ the very next moment, because Dr. Flug doesn't even see Black Hat _move_ \-- Black Hat is digging gloved fingers into Dr. Flug’s elbows, face inches away. Dr. Flug's breath hitches in terror in his chest as the lights flicker above. Black Hat’s one visible eye is glowing a deep red that somehow worsens his headache. **_“Beg.”_**

“Okay, okay! B-Black Hat--”

“That’s _Mister_ Black Hat. Or ‘sir’.”

 _God, what a creep,_ Dr. Flug thinks. Still, what choice does he have? “M-Mister Black Hat,” he says, “please, p-please don’t kill me...”

“Better,” Black Hat allows. “Go on.”

Dr. Flug flounders. What else can he say? “I-I’ll stop taking commissions.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. Slade -- A-Amos,” Dr. Flug amends when the title makes Black Hat scowl, “he disrespected you by paying for my services instead, right? S-So I won’t make inventions for villains any more. I’ll get a-a boring cubicle job, or something!”

“How thoughtful,” Black Hat says. He reaches up to pat Dr. Flug’s cheek, but stops short at the paper bag. He redirects the motion to his shoulder. “But putting you out of business won’t stop dishonest people from being dishonest, Dr. Flug. Try again.”

“I,” Dr. Flug sputters. His mind races. Black Hat had admired the machine he had made. Black Hat was probably a creator, or a seller at the very least, of villainous machines and weaponry just like Dr. Flug. If Dr. Flug were Black Hat, and he had the competition in a compromising position... what would he want from them?

Dr. Flug licks his lips. “Do," he tries, "Do you... want me to work for you?”

Black Hat looks bored again. “Are you asking me, or convincing me?”

Dr. Flug jerks forward, forgetting his throat is restrained and coughing when the metal cuts off his air supply. “P-Please! Please let me work for you! I’m the best freelance inventor on the market.” Dr. Flug’s voice is cracking, but he doesn’t care. He’s becoming frantic with desperation. “I... I’ll be useful to you! I’ll do... anything you want...”

Black Hat’s grin is smug and triumphant. “Are you _sure_ about that?”

This feels different from when he said it to Mr. Slade, Dr. Flug realizes. Then it had been word vomit, whatever he could come up with to try and stave off his impending fate. Yet this feels like what Black Hat was waiting for -- a contract. A blood vow. “Yes,” Dr. Flug says. His voice is watery. Tears slip down his face and soak into the paper bag, drip down his chin and neck. He sniffs, feeling pathetic. “A-Anything.”

“Good,” Black Hat says. He pulls away and reaches for the terminal.

Its electrical whir begins winding down when Black Hat touches the screen, and Dr. Flug feels his body go limp with relief. He can hardly believe he managed to convince Black Hat to spare his life. Or maybe, he thinks bitterly, Black Hat had always intended to recruit him. Maybe he just wanted to have a little fun for its own sake. Torment him a little. Dr. Flug is dreading his future in Black Hat's employ, if this is the sort of thing he has to look forward to.

The belts come loose. Dr. Flug moves to stand -- but he falls back against the chair.

The neck restraint is stuck. Probably because the power was cut while it was operating.  Dr. Flug reaches for it and tries to disengage it, but it won’t budge. “Um, Black Hat... s-sir...”

Black Hat hums in question, and Dr. Flug points helplessly to his neck. Black Hat reaches down and wraps his hand around the metal.  Leather whispers against Dr. Flug’s neck, and he shivers.

“So much for production quality, hm?” Black Hat teases, testing the give of the metal and feeling out its edges, just as Dr. Flug had done.

In his own defense, Dr. Flug mutters, “This was supposed to be a test run...”

“Hm. Hold still.” Black Hat reaches out with both hands to wrap them around the metal restraint. An ear-splitting crunching sound keens in Dr. Flug’s ears, but he does his best to remain motionless. Black Hat snarls, a sound of exertion, then the metal is suddenly gone, clattering and splashing away somewhere in a pool of blood.  Dr. Flug’s neck stings, and he touches it. His gloved fingers come away with blood.

Black Hat slaps his hands away from his neck. “Let me see it!” Those gloves seize him by the shoulder and jaw, tilting his head up and away so Black Hat can see his neck. Dr. Flug hisses softly as the sting intensifies, but tries to focus on something else. Those gloves, for example -- the leather is soft and supple, but they don’t feel worn-out. _They must be very expensive,_ Dr. Flug thinks.

Black Hat releases him. “Just a scratch,” he assures him.

“R-Right,” Dr. Flug says.  When Black Hat steps away, Dr. Flug braces his hands on the arms of the chair to try and stand again, but he feels remarkably tired. The machine isn’t meant to induce exhaustion. Perhaps it is an unforeseen side effect of all the thrashing around. Something he would have addressed for the 2.0 version, to be sure.

Black Hat holds out a hand, offering Dr. Flug his assistance. Dr. Flug eyes the hand mistrustfully, but he suspects Black Hat rarely offers anyone kindness. And he really doesn’t think he can stand unassisted.

Dr. Flug takes the hand, and is taken by surprise when Black Hat yanks him easily to his feet. He stumbles, but Black Hat seems uninterested in extending the offer of a hand to one of a shoulder -- so Dr. Flug falls to his hands and knees in a pool of blood.

Black Hat laughs uproariously. It's even more menacing than Dr. Flug had imagined it would be.

Dr. Flug sighs. “You’re the worst,” he says. He leans back to kneel on the ground and wipe his bloodied gloves on his coat.

When Dr. Flug looks up, Black Hat’s grin is Cheshire, and he tips the brim of his hat as if Dr. Flug has just paid him a compliment. “And don’t you forget it."

And in a swell of shadows, they’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! The BH/Flug bug bit me and wouldn't leave me be, so here to torture you and also myself with this slowest of burns is an origin story with barely any sexual tension! Don't worry though, it's coming.
> 
> Soon.


	2. Pulling Your Punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: vomiting, blood, unsanitariness, threats of violence and death, nonconsensual disrobing
> 
> Mentions of: cannibalism, insurance fraud

Dr. Flug’s nose stings with the stench of ozone and sulfur. Roiling shadows surround him, feel like they're closing in on him, so he scrabbles and slides away from the encroaching darkness until he hits something, grabs it for balance -- and upon closer inspection, realizes it is Black Hat’s pant leg he has in his hand.

Before he can think better of his split-second decision to anchor himself to the unpredictable villain, the smoky darkness descends upon them. Dr. Flug gasps, and thick clouds of particulate matter sear a path to his lungs, lighting a fire in his chest. He coughs, and once he starts he can't seem to stop. His chest constricts around the heat, and he has to grip Black Hat’s leg with both hands as his coughing fit increases in its violent intensity.

His headache makes his pitch black surroundings a dizzying vortex. Dr. Flug struggles to maintain his grip on Black Hat’s leg as his equilibrium shifts. Saliva pools at the corners of his mouth as the urge to vomit hits him. And he still can't stop coughing.

Terror grips the base of his skull with burning fingers. Is this how Black Hat intends to kill him? Because Dr. Flug will surely suffocate like this.

A hand wraps around his neck from behind -- Black Hat. That leather is unmistakable, and its touch is cool. It helps Dr. Flug ground himself with an additional unmoving point of contact. Dr. Flug breathes in again, and it sounds like a death rattle, but he doesn't immediately start coughing. The tickling in his throat is still there, and the burning, as if a dust demon were trying to claw its way out of his lungs. But Dr. Flug somehow finds the strength to suppress the urge. He exhales, wispy and strained. Inhales as slowly as he can.

Then in a rush, the burning quality of the air vanishes. When Dr. Flug reaches out to touch the ground, it is reassuringly firm. He exhales shakily, and takes a few liberating gasps of air.

The hand on the back of his neck tightens, and without warning Dr. Flug is being dragged along the floor and dropped just as abruptly. He barely manages to catch himself on his hands and knees, though he very nearly falls into a heap.

Dr. Flug blinks, but his watering eyes can't see through his goggles. The lenses are too fogged up. He yanks them off, and then the paper bag for good measure. All the better to breathe and see.

His eyes take a moment to adjust. The lights are mercifully dim, so they only exacerbate his headache marginally. When his vision comes into focus, Dr. Flug sees that he is in an opulent black marble bathroom.

And before him is a toilet.

His aching mind struggles to make sense of why Black Hat dragged him over here. The cogs and gears in his brain creak and strain with the effort. Maybe Black Hat wants to give him a swirly? Unconventional, and juvenile, but not too different from waterboarding, Dr. Flug supposes.

Dr. Flug hasn't been waterboarded before. But he isn't eager to be reminded of what a swirly feels like.

Black Hat seizes the back of his neck again and hauls Dr. Flug over the toilet. He isn't sure he should struggle with Black Hat’s hand so tight around his neck, but his mounting sense of panic doesn't let him remain still. “No, wait! Don't--”

Dr. Flug is unprepared for the wave of nausea that washes over him and makes him suddenly retch mid-sentence. Bile and half-digested pizza splash into the toilet water in a choking gurgle. He coughs to clear his airway.  His salivatory glands are working overtime, and he spits into the putrefying contents of the toilet. His stomach is already empty, but the sight and the smell make him dry heave a few more times before he regains control of himself.

Black Hat releases him suddenly, and Dr. Flug scrabbles for purchase with his blood-slippery gloves to avoid bashing his chin into the toilet seat. Dr. Flug casts a glower up at Black Hat. Those off-color piranha teeth are bared in an insufferable grin.

“You didn't seem the type to have a strong constitution,” Black Hat says by way of explanation.

Dr. Flug wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, but it just smears blood on his face. He grimaces, stomach twisting in an unpleasant mobius. “Thanks for noticing,” he grumbles.

“I think you will find, Dr. Flug,” Black Hat says as he straightens his jacket -- and it's strange that his suit is so pristinely clean, Flug thinks dazedly, when Flug himself is so drenched in blood that its cooling, tacky ubiquity is making him shiver. “... That there is very little that escapes my notice.”

Dr. Flug realizes he should probably be quaking in fear rather than discomfort, and maybe some of it _is_ fear -- but he is in so much pain that it is difficult to focus on anything else. “I'll keep that in mind,” he says, and dry heaves into the toilet.

“Hm. Get cleaned up. Rest.  We'll discuss terms.”

Dr. Flug wants to question Black Hat, but his stomach chooses that moment to suddenly discover something else to purge, and he has to grip the toilet seat and lunge his head forward to avoid vomiting all over himself. By the time Dr. Flug recovers enough to speak, Black Hat is long gone.

Dr. Flug reaches shakily for the toilet paper roll beside the toilet. He manages to muster up the strength to rip the paper, but the fact that it takes so much effort makes him feel pathetic. He wipes his mouth and tries to blow his nose. The resultant pressure between his eyes makes him drop the tissue with a pained gasp. He tugs off his rubber gloves, which takes ages with his fatigue and the slippery tack of blood complicating things. When his hands are bare, he pinches the bridge of his nose to try to quell his headache.

His mouth tastes like hell, his nose and sinuses burn, and his skull is an open, throbbing wound. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, and it's a small mercy there are no other sounds for him to contend with. Dr. Flug isn't sure he could handle anything else.

How he's handling things as they are is already a mystery.

With a groan, Flug slides to the floor and presses his face to the comfortably cool marble tiles. His breaths come shallow, and he shivers as the blood dries on his skin and clothes.

He manages not to cry, if only because he knows it will just make his headache even worse.

* * *

Black Hat leaves Dr. Flug in the guest bathroom and exits through the bedroom. As he closes the door, he considers locking it behind him. It’s a good idea if he wants the doctor to panic... But the man seems to ride at a constant state of near-panic, anyway. There wouldn’t be much point, besides. It’s not as if Dr. Flug can leave, regardless of whether the door is locked or not.

Black Hat has the man exactly where he wants him, and he isn’t going anywhere.

Satisfied, Black Hat releases the knob and walks away to find something to occupy his time. He’ll have to wait for Dr. Flug to come looking for him. How long do humans need to sleep again? Twelve hours? Sixteen? He could never be bothered to remember. Ah, well. He’ll simply come check on the man in an hour to make sure he figured out how the shower works. And got himself into the guest bed all right. He had been shaking like a leaf when Black Hat left him, so he might not even manage that.

Black Hat supposes he could have stayed to make sure Dr. Flug got himself sorted all right... but the reputation Black Hat wants to cultivate wouldn’t abide him not mocking the man for behaving so pathetically, and castigating him would have just delayed their discussing terms. Black Hat doesn’t want to do that. He’s impatient to get down to brass tacks.

As he walks, his pace is sedate, indulgently so. It is difficult not to admire the home he made for himself each time he walks its halls.  It is perfectly sophisticated, he thinks, elegant and dark and foreboding. The tinted red glass windows on the second floor are especially delightful, washing the world outside in a coat of blood. The imagery is an unfulfilled promise of the carnage Black Hat _could_ inflict upon the dull and meaningless lives outside, if he so chose.

It makes him feel nostalgic for a time when he would have done so without a second thought.

Black Hat comes to a halt before a heavy set of mahogany double doors, and he takes a moment to admire the carvings therein.  Depictions of death and destruction whorl in a riot of overlapping scenery, overseen by grotesque demonic faces nestled into the door frame. Black Hat does not bring many people to his private office, but the tableau on the door hasn't failed yet to unsettle a human on the rare occasion that he does. The door swings open and he steps inside, and he takes gratification in the echoing finality of it slamming behind him.

Black Hat takes a moment to breathe in the atmosphere of his office. The scent of the centuries-old forbidden tomes that line the shelves, the murmur of secrets beneath the floorboards, the phantom weight of his presence in the room from spending so many hours within its confines... Black Hat exhales with self-satisfaction. _Cozy._

As he walks past his record shelf, he selects an album of music, and on the way to his desk he places it on the record player. The crackle and hum of the vinyl is just the thing to loosen his shoulders as he slides his coat off and drapes it over the back of his chair. He roots through the drawers until he procures his accounting books and ledgers, and he settles into the chair to get to work. The ominous organ music plays soothingly in the background as he balances debts and figures.

The most pressing order of business, Black Hat decides, is his latest backpedaling client: Amos Slade.

There is the matter of having paid shipping and handling for the item Amos ordered, not to mention the customs officials to whom Black Hat had given hush money. Black Hat had to pay them _twice_ to reroute the device back into his possession, after Amos missed his second payment. All of this remains to be compensated for. Black Hat Inc. is hardly hurting for funds, but he wouldn't have gotten this far if he chalked such things up to “acceptable losses”.

So: how to pay for it?

Black Hat taps his pursed lip with his pen. Amos had a respectable amount of staff. Black Hat could find out who among them had active life insurance policies, claim them, then intercept any funds or correspondence before it reaches their families. Yes, that'll do... However, it's just as likely that none of them had life insurance. The premiums for a villainous line of work are nothing to scoff at, and easily too expensive for most lowly henchman’s wages.

So, insurance fraud is an option if he wants to go to the extra effort. But Black Hat needs something a little more promising to cover his expenses.

Well, it isn't exactly a financial saving... But Black Hat _could_ save himself some time and effort if he preserves their corpses for his own purposes. He prefers raw meat, when he chooses to eat, so that takes care of groceries for a while. And a new bone sculpture or decal is never out of place in the manor.

 _What else, what else... ah, of course!_ Black Hat sniggers with delight, grinning with all his teeth as he imagines the dividends.

Amos’s lair. It’s on prime real estate, comfortably remote, imposing and stately -- and, as it happens, quite fortuitously unoccupied.

Black Hat makes a small note in the margins of his ledger for now and sets his books aside. He'll have to go back for his meat and bones, anyway, so he'll take another look around to see how much it might be worth on the current market. A villainous lair one builds for herself is preferable to a second- or third-hand lair, of course, but few villains have the funds to make that initial investment. Black Hat has no doubt it will be a very competitive sale. Maybe he could even hold an auction on-site!

It gives Black Hat a satisfying sense of closure to have loose ends tied up so nicely.

And as an added bonus, Black Hat now has a promising prospective head of his budding research and development department.

Black Hat is looking forward to outlining the terms of Dr. Flug's employ at Black Hat Incorporated. He may have secured the doctor’s servitude by coercion, but he hadn't missed the depth of the man’s resignation. He is far too comfortable with the thought of death as an escape. Black Hat would need to strike a balance between frightening the man into obedience, and keeping him happy enough that he never considers killing himself preferential to serving Black Hat.

Herein lies the challenge, Black Hat thinks: the human factor. It’s not that he isn’t capable of manipulating humans for personal gain. It is just that their being unpredictable makes them a bother, and he has no patience for their incomprehensible sentiment _._ But if he can subjugate the human race, surely he can get a  _single_  human to do his bidding.

Frankly, Black Hat thought becoming a mogul of villainous inventions and weaponry would prove more of a challenge. Dominating a business empire isn't very different from dominating a world, he is coming to find -- and the latter he's done countless times with ease.

Still, the shape of his domination is different from this angle. There's more nuance to it when it must be done with marketing, budgeting, pitching and selling -- persuasion, rather than annihilation. And with a finalized business deal, even the modicum of effort he must expend to achieve it results in an even more accomplished sense of triumph than if he had used brute force.

And for the times when diplomacy fails, well.

Brute force is a _very_ effective fallback plan.

Black Hat tidies up his office and prepares to return to the scene of the crime and stake his claim.

That should occupy him long enough until he needs to check in on his new house guest.

* * *

Black Hat stares at his prospective employee. He’s strongly considering changing his estimation of the man from prospective employee to prospective _dinner_ , if his eyes are not deceiving him of the man’s uselessness as he lives and breathes.

Dr. Flug is curled up on the floor exactly where Black Hat left him a few hours ago, shivering and murmuring in fitful slumber.

Did Amos Slade do more damage than Black Hat realized? Or was it Black Hat’s methods of travel that put the pathetic doctor in such a state? Stress, maybe. Or perhaps Dr. Flug is in shock from his near-death experience?

Resigned, Black Hat lets his coat drop in an inky pool to the marble floor. Loosens his tie. Rolls up his sleeves. Seizes Dr. Flug and holds him at arm’s length, like garbage too distasteful to touch, and deposits him none-too-gently in the tub. Dr. Flug whimpers quietly at the rough treatment, but miraculously does not awaken. He only curls up and shivers even more violently.

 _Good grief,_ Black Hat thinks, and turns the shower head on at high pressure.

Dr. Flug remains unconscious for a few more impressive moments. His brow scrunches up, and slowly, he blinks his eyes open into the onslaught of water. Then he jumps up, coming to full awareness with a yelp and slipping and scrabbling to the far end of the shower to escape the spray. “What are you d-d-doing?!” Dr. Flug demands.

Black Hat scowls. Dr. Flug is hardly in a position to be making demands. Black Hat redirects the shower head into the man’s face to punish him for his insolence, and he grins as Dr. Flug sputters and coughs, holding his arms up to shield his eyes and mouth. “You’re _disgusting_ ,” Black Hat says. Dr. Flug throws his torso over the edge of the tub and gasps for breath. “Didn’t I tell you to get cleaned up _hours_ ago? I’ve been gracious enough to give you a guest bedroom, but if you’d rather wallow in your own _filth_ , there’s plenty of room in the dungeon...”

“N-No! I-I’m sorry, s-sir, I just... My head hurt so much, I c-c-couldn’t m-move...”

Ugh. Worthless. Black Hat searches the man’s face for deceit, but the fear and pain and discomfort are all he sees. For that matter... The doctor’s lips and fingers are blueing, quivering, and his chattering teeth are making it impossible to distinguish his words from his contemptible whimpering.

Black Hat places his wrist beneath the spray of the water and finds it ice cold. He adjusts it until it’s more on the lukewarm side. Dr Flug sags visibly, shrinking back into the spray in search of its relative warmth. “You do yourself a disservice to defy me, Dr. Flug," he goes on, voice on the razor's edge between warning and threatening.

“Y-Yes sir...”

Black Hat narrows his eyes, and Dr. Flug shrinks obediently beneath his gaze. _Good._ “Strip.”

“E-Excuse me?!”

Black Hat snarls, “Take your **_bloody clothes off,_ ** you insipid fool! You’re obviously too pathetic to handle that without being told.”

“You mean, while you’re s-standing there...?”

“Yes!” Black Hat roars. Dr. Flug grips his head and quakes, but Black Hat has no patience for the man’s antics. “Do you need an _itemized list,_ idiot?” Then, inspired by his own rhetorical question, Black Hat holds his hand out and curls his fingers in a ‘give it’ gesture. “Give me your coat.”

Hands shaking, Dr. Flug crosses his arms over his chest and seizes the lapels of his coat. For a moment, Black Hat thinks the gesture is protective, and that he’ll be forced to undress the man himself -- but then it slides off the doctor’s shoulders, and Dr. Flug shakes his arms to free them from the soaking wet sleeves. He slides toward Black Hat with hunched shoulders, like a dog afraid of being struck by its master, and proffers the sopping lab coat.

Black Hat takes it -- doesn’t even need to tug, Dr. Flug’s shaking fingers are gripping it so _weakly_ \-- and tosses it into the corner of the room.

“Uh, isn’t that going to make a mess... s-sir?”

Black Hat rolls his shoulders and his neck. Dealing with Dr. Flug is already making him tense. “I’ll deal with it later. Shoes,” he says tersely, and beckons with his gloved hand again.

Dr. Flug sits back and reaches for his shoelaces, but judging by the way he fumbles, he lacks the dexterity to do anything about them. With a despairing sigh, he yanks the shoes off and offers those up to Black Hat, too. “Am I getting any of this back, or...?”

Black Hat takes the soggy shoes, half stained brown with blood and half dripping pink with it, and he raises an incredulous brow at the doctor. “Do you actually _want_ any of it back?”

Dr. Flug hesitates. Finally, he says, “My shirt made it out okay...”

Black Hat sneers and rolls his eyes. Bloody humans and their stupid sentiments... “Then I’ll leave the shirt and burn the rest.”

Dr. Flug shrinks. “Yes, sir.”

Black Hat tosses the shoes into the pile with the lab coat, where they are joined shortly thereafter by the doctor’s socks.

Dr. Flug wrings his hands instead of wriggling out of his pants, and Black Hat growls in frustration. _“Now_ what?”

“Uh, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to, t-to turn around, Mr. Black Hat, sir...?”

“Oh, you want to be alone?” Black Hat asks. He crosses his arms as Flug nods and gives a hopeful little, “yes sir!” Black Hat crouches by the tub and rests his elbows on his knees. “You should have taken that into consideration when I left you alone **_two hours ago._ ** ” Black Hat’s words are spoken through gritted teeth, but it’s clear Dr. Flug gets the gist of his meaning when he starts fumbling with the buttons of his fly. Why on earth does the man have so many buttons?!

Black Hat suspects Dr. Flug is having similar thoughts, since his fingers keep slipping and failing to gain any traction on their smooth metal surfaces. Black Hat slaps his shaking hands out of the way. “Do it myself,” he grumbles, and he makes short work of the buttons despite Dr. Flug’s protests.

As long as he’s babying the doctor, he figures he may as well take care of the rest of the man’s clothes. Black Hat grips the waistband of Dr. Flug’s pants and underwear together (all in service of finishing with this unpleasant business as soon as possible, of course) and _tugs._

“Stop!” Dr. Flug shouts.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Black Hat hisses, tugging again -- but the doctor has curled up his legs so as to make his pants impossible to remove at this angle. “Let me take your clothes off.”

“Let... Let me do it!”

“You had _two. Hours._ ”

“That’s not entirely fair! I was fatigued, and terrified, and in pain, a-and, and--”

“If you don’t move so I can undress you,” Black Hat growls, leaning into the spray to loom over Dr. Flug without regard to the water dousing his head and shoulders, “I’m going to _rip_ your clothes off and scrub you down with a pad of _steel wool.”_

Suddenly Black Hat is looking away from Dr. Flug. He sees his monocle floating in the bath water, and -- he’s no fool, but for a human to have the _gall_ to do what Dr. Flug just did is nigh on unthinkable. Considering that, Black Hat forgives himself for the few seconds it takes to process what happened.

Because Dr. Flug has just struck him.

The water falls around them in an incessant patter. It is the only other sound apart from Dr. Flug’s hummingbird-quick heartbeat, his panicked hyperventilating.

“I'm sorry,” Dr. Flug whispers. His hands are shaking in Black Hat’s periphery.

Black Hat remains perfectly still, but the eye facing Flug stares at him in stony disbelief. “You're...” Black Hat breathes, a low and dangerous rumble. “... **_Sorry?_ ** _”_ The lights flicker. Black Hat clenches his fists around the denim in his hands, and he curls his wrists until Dr. Flug cringes and twists away from his touch. He turns his head to the man, then, and leans in so close his breath puffs across Dr. Flug's face. “You know I could kill you with a thought, Dr. Flug. Did that really seem like a good idea...?”

“I panicked,” Dr. Flug gasps. “Black Hat, please--”

Black Hat rears back with a sneer, twists his wrists further, further, until Dr. Flug cries out in pain. _I’ll give you something to panic about,_ he thinks.

Dr. Flug covers his face and sobs incoherently into his hands: “Please, please, please...”

 _Pathetic,_ Black Hat thinks, grimacing in disgust.

But he pauses.

As much as he wants to show Dr. Flug the gravity of the error he just made, he knows humans are fragile, pathetic things -- this one even moreso. Yesterday, Black Hat was reckless. He tortured and killed for the joy of it, and he destroyed his playthings whenever he grew bored or displeased with them. Today, however, he is playing chess. Black Hat needs all the pieces in one piece, as it were, if he is to win the game.

Dr. Flug is a very important piece.

Black Hat cannot allow himself to break the man simply because he lost his temper.

The water pitter-patters and splashes around them, unconcerned by the tension through which it continues to spray effortlessly. Black Hat does _not_ do deep breathing exercises -- but he breathes, chest heaving, until his exhalations sound less like a raging bear and more like a villain exercising saintly restraint. Gradually, he uncurls his wrists, easing the pressure off of Dr. Flug’s hips and pelvis. When he reclaims them, Black Hat scowls at his shaking hands. Logically, he knows it is the urge to do violence -- the pent-up aggression, the muscle memory of crushing something when he is wronged. But seeing Dr. Flug’s own shaking hands makes his mind connect the two tastelessly, as if their inner thoughts and feelings are even _remotely_ similar.

Black Hat takes his time composing himself, since Dr. Flug is preoccupied with his blubbering and begging. He retrieves his monocle from the water and wipes it on his sleeve, breathes on it, then polishes it on his sleeve again and restores it to its rightful place. He stands and wills away the water droplets clinging to his hat, skin, and shirt, and he summons his coat to him from the floor. He folds it carefully and drapes it over one arm.

It is when Dr. Flug’s breathing is approaching something normal once more that Black Hat speaks. “Dr. Flug.” Dr. Flug jolts and stares up at Black Hat. His brow furrows, but before the man can come to his own conclusions, Black Hat delivers his ultimatum: “You have _one hour._ If I come back, and you are not bathed and resting in the bed in _that_ room,” he says, pointing through the door to the guest bedroom, “then I will put you there myself.” He crouches down to the side of the tub, his eyes gleaming with sinister intent. “And it will be your _final_ resting place.”

Dr. Flug’s throat works uselessly around a response, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.

Black Hat scowls. “Do you _understand,_ Dr. Flug?”

The doctor nods vigorously, and that is the only answer Black Hat waits for before departing the bathroom once more -- hopefully the _final_ time for the evening.

Dr. Flug is a very lucky catch, Black Hat has to remind himself. The man had been desperately trying to convince Black Hat of his worth when he was begging for his life, but it had not been an exaggeration to say he is the best freelance inventor on the market. It hadn’t come up in their initial conversation, but Amos Slade was not the first person to eschew Black Hat’s products for Dr. Flug’s services. It was why Black Hat was curious enough to reach out to the doctor before taking his revenge on Amos, and the reason he had considered taking the man onto his staff in the first place.

But good grief, the man is high maintenance! Black Hat isn’t sure how Flug got this far if he was too incompetent to conduct basic personal hygiene. He can only hope Dr. Flug’s ineptitude is a temporary affliction brought on by the stress and the change in scenery, and that the man will soon prove to be as self-sufficient as his reputation makes him out to be.

Now -- certifiably, this time -- he has only to wait for Dr. Flug.  What to do in the meantime, though?

Black Hat considers going back to his office and balancing his ledger, but he knows himself well enough to acknowledge that he hasn't the mind for numbers at the moment.

Those corpses he shoved in the freezer, though, are still in cumbersome and inconvenient shapes, with fabric and hair clinging to the meat. It isn’t the type of violence he truly _longs_ to do, but Black Hat is finding more and more that running a business is about making compromises.

And Black Hat can think of worse ways to spend an evening than dismembering the corpses of his enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for reading!
> 
> The response to this has been _overwhelmingly_ positive, and I'm so, so flattered to have your attention and readership! I'd love to respond individually to all your clever, thoughtful, heartwarming comments, and hopefully soon I will find the time to do so! Just know that every comment inspires me to write a little more, and that reading through your comments over and over again helps me keep up my motivation to continue writing!
> 
> In case this slow burn isn't scratching your itch, my lovely buddy [@GhostOakes](https://twitter.com/GhostOakes) over on twitter is making a nsfw comic of these two nasty boys. Also just a general shout-out to Ghost for talkin' nsfw Villainous ideas with me, it helps me organize my thoughts and refine the characters a little more! Anyway if you read his comic and you like it, please let him know!
> 
> Thanks again for having me! I guess I'm updating this weekly-ish? I have a good idea of where I want it to go, and I'm really excited for it! I hope you guys have just as much fun reading as I do writing. c:


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